Coffee, Black, Two Sugars
by ifonlynotnever
Summary: ONE SHOT. Wherein the 221boys are out of milk, John is chipper, Sherlock is grumpy, and nothing happens except for coffee. That's not a euphemism. Actual coffee.


**Disclaimer:** I own no part of _Sherlock_ or its characters.**  
>CharactersPairings:** Sherlock Holmes, John Watson.**  
>Genre:<strong> Gen, humor. But incredibly gen.**  
>Rating:<strong> G/K.**  
>Word Count:<strong> 761.**  
>Summary:<strong> Wherein the 221boys are out of milk, John is chipper, Sherlock is grumpy, and nothing happens except for coffee. That's not a euphemism. Actual coffee.**  
>Notes:<strong> Another kinkmeme fill, this time asking for an incredibly mundane slice-of-life. It ended up with John being domestic and probably unwittingly!platonically!married to Sherlock. Shut up, it just happened.

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><p>"Morning. Coffee or tea?" John asks from the sitting room when Sherlock shuffles into the kitchen at a quarter to eleven on the day after they've wrapped up a week-long case. The detective is in his ratty pyjamas and dressing gown, his hair even more unruly than usual, looking rumpled and groggy and entirely <em>normal<em>.

But then, John supposes, fourteen hours of sleep after a week of enforced insomnia will do that.

"Mmngh," Sherlock mutters incoherently, slumping into a chair. He flings his arms onto the table and lays his head down on his improvised pillow. "Coffee," he yawns after a moment.

The corner of John's mouth lifts and he folds away his newspaper and pads into the kitchen on bare feet. Normally, he'd have put on one, maybe two pairs of socks before venturing anywhere near Sherlock's health hazard of a miniature laboratory, but there hasn't been an experiment-related accident in the room for over two weeks, and he supposes it's safe enough.

"What are you doing today?" he asks as he takes down Sherlock's mug—the white one with the thin stripes on it—from the cabinet and gives it a perfunctory rinse-out. Sherlock isn't in the habit of using his own tableware in his experiments, and John does tend to think that if he does, Sherlock deserves anything that's coming to him, but for today—and just for today—John is inclined to be kind.

"Having coffee, hopefully."

John rolls his eyes. "Oh, shut up. Seriously."

Sherlock gives a little groan into the makeshift shelter of his arms. "You're going to make me go to Tesco, aren't you."

"Oh, now that you mention it, we _are_ out of milk..."

"Don't feign innocence, you're awful at it. And we're _always_ out of milk."

"Yeah, funny, that. Wonder where it all goes."

Sherlock snorts, shifting his head so his chin rests on his loosely-clenched fist. "Not in my coffee."

"Your experiments, on the other hand...?"

"Piss off. It was necessary."

"Still not seeing how bathing _a dozen thumbs_ in a pool of milk was—"

"Well, it was! Probably! Can't remember what the point of it was now, I think I deleted it. Where's my coffee? You're doing this on purpose. You know I can't deal with—with milk and Tesco and all of your hideously domestic _nagging_ without coffee."

The twitching of John's tightly-controlled mouth may as well be a full grin. "It's boiling. So you'll go?"

Sherlock moans, flopping back in his chair, arms dangling from his sides, his head lolling back. John, upside-down, gives him an amused glance. "You're insufferably cheerful today. Stop it."

"We just finished a case for a paying customer. Excuse me for being overjoyed we'll make the rent this month."

"Excused," Sherlock retorts. "I'm sure it's _nothing_ to do with the date you have later this evening. Which one is it this time, the one with the nose or the one with the spots?"

"Oi!"

"I'll take that as a _neither_. Pity she'll be cancelling."

"Wh—Oh, shut up. You can't know that."

"Can't I?"

John hesitates, the fingers of one hand looped around the handle of Sherlock's coffee mug, the other reaching for the newly-brewed coffee.

"Uh... No," he says decisively, after a moment of squinting at his flatmate. "No, you can't."

Sherlock smirks. "Good. No, I can't. Don't want you overestimating me."

"No, of course not." John pours out Sherlock's coffee, stirs in two sugars, and carries the mug over to its owner. There is, for once, enough space on their poor, abused, crowded tabletop to place it on the surface without disturbing anything... delicate. John takes a moment to watch his flatmate sip greedily at the beverage, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's wince when he scalds his tongue.

"So..." the doctor begins idly, casually, as he leans against the table, arms crossed over his jumper. "That's a yes for Tesco and milk, then? Because we need beans and jam, too. Oh, and more bread."

The detective glowers over the top of his mug. "Is this something you learned in Afghanistan? Psychological torture? Moriarty could take tips from you."

"I think I'll take that as a _yes_ and a compliment."

"It was a _no_ and an insult."

"Really? See, I think it was a _yes_, because if I have to go, I'm not getting any more coffee grounds. You're drinking the last of the ones we had."

Sherlock groans. "I _hate_ you sometimes."

The smile on John's lips is completely and utterly serene. "No," he replies, "I really don't think you do."

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><p><strong>Notes:<strong> Let's pretend I know how to make coffee. Thanks for reading!


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